Born of Stone and Sea: Tales of The Greyjoy Rebellion
by Ser Harras Harlaw
Summary: In 289 AL, The Iron Islands rebels against King Robert. This story follows a particular Ironborn war captain, a living legend and hero of his people, Harren the Red. Feel free to follow/fav/or review!
1. I - The Pirate King of Grey Gallows

**Born of Stone and Sea:**

**Tales of the Greyjoy Rebellion**

* * *

**Prologue - Recalling The Tides of Darkness**

Six years after Robert's Rebellion (282-83 AL), in 289 AL, Balon Greyjoy, Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands, declared himself King of the Iron Islands, independent of the Seven Kingdoms, ruled by now-King Robert I Baratheon. The Greyjoys swiftly struck at the Westerlands, under House Lannister, by burning the Lannister fleet, at Lannisport, and winning a decisive victory.

Backed fully by his council, King Robert issued a royal decree for the Lords of Westeros to call their banners in response.

Some time later, Stannis Baratheon led the Royal Fleet to defeat the Iron Fleet, off the coast of Fair Isle, while simultaneously, the Greyjoys lost the battle of Seagard, which resulted in the death of Crown-Prince Rodrik Greyjoy, and as such, the tables had turned, and the Ironborn were recalled to the Islands to defend from the impending counterattack.

Robert and some of his men recall that most significant battle...

**The Red Keep, King's Landing**  
**298 AL**

_"That was a battle, Selmy. Gods that was a battle,"_ said Robert, as he pulled a flask of ale up to his mouth, taking a large gulp.

_"Aye, Your Grace,"_ said a humbled Ser Barristan Selmy.

_"That giant of a man,"_ said Robert, wincing. "What was his name," he continued, snapping his fingers trying to recollect the name. _"The one with legs like a tree stump and boulders on his arms,"_ he said, laughing.

Ser Jaime sighed, and looked over to Barristan.

Robert waved his hand around, trying to think of the name. "Uh, the one with the large maul, ugh..." Robert said, failing to recall the man's name.

_"I believe his name was Harren,"_ said Jaime, seemingly flustered.

_"Yes!"_ exclaimed Robert. "That's the one. Harren the Red they called him. By the Gods that man was the bane of the Warrior, himself," said Robert, heartily. _"Would you not say so, Ser Barristan?"_

_"Indeed, Your Grace. In living memory, he was the fiercest of the Ironborn I've ever come across."_

Robert looked right at Jaime. _"That monstrous son of a whore could crush The Mountain with a single blow, as massive as he was."_

_"I'm sure he could have, Your Grace,"_ said Jaime, in a humbly sarcastic tone. He recalled his disdain for this warrior - the warrior who almost bested him, had it not been for the interference of Eddard Stark, which surely saved his life.

_"Gods I oft ponder how he attained such magnificent strength. Blessed by whatever s:censored:t water god they believed in. He could wave that maul around with one arm, like it was a hammer,"_ continued Robert, looking up from Barristan to Jaime, and back. _"He took down a dozen knights from Lordsport to the courtyard of Pyke, including two of your brothers,"_ he said to Barristan.

_"Perhaps they were ill-suited to face the man in single combat,"_ sniped Jaime.

_"Had it not been for Lord Eddard, you would be plotting your ass about the Seven right now,"_ snapped Robert, deliberately mocking him.

Jaime's head twitched. He was trying to contain his anger, attempting to ignore Robert's relentless goading.

Barristan forced a cough, attempting to break the tension. _"Indeed, Your Grace. I had never seen a man fight with as much fervor, such intense fearlessness. That man could certainly stand his ground."_

_"Aye, Ser Barristan. He could..."_

* * *

**Chapter I - The Pirate King of Grey Gallows**

**Ten years earlier...**

Lifting the Tyroshi by his long, greasy, bright green hair, Eberon the One-Eyed inspected his nearly dead foe. He put his drawn dagger to the man's throat, and slowly slit it across, laying his face lightly on the deck of the ship, he stood, inhaling the righteously salty sea air, he was at home.

_"Its a good day for reaving, Eb,"_ jested Skywald, walking by. His bow was drawn, and he paced about the deck of the same ship.

Bodies littered the deck, as the ironborn reavers finished off their wounded foes and looted what trinkets adorned the corpses.

_"What day is not a good day for a good reave, my friend,"_ said Eberon, winking his one good eye.

Skywald put his right foot up on the rail, at the bow of the ship, and leaned over, slinging his bow to his back, he drew an apple from a side pouch, and began to eat it. Looking out, three other ships were burning at port, ironborn warriors were seen along the docks and shore, with their collections of loot, piled to the height of a common man. Skywald just smiled, while joyously eating his apple.

_"Get down here, pretty boy!"_ shouted Thorwin from the dock below.

Skywald threw his apple down to Thorwin, who caught it, twisted it around in his hand, and took a bite, wiping the juice off his mouth, he walked back towards the shore.

The makeshift walled encampment that had once stood, with solid stone walls, and firmly constructed structures, inside, serving as a base for _'The Sea Bastards'_, was now a smouldering ruin. Their buildings put to torch, and bodies strewn about the ground in a mosaic of bloodied corpses.

Gripping a rope hung from a protruded sail, Skywald descended off the ship to the dock below, to meet with Thorwin.

_"Sea Bastards, eh?"_ he said, spitting upon the deck. _"I wonder how many bastards these bastards created? Probably half as many bastards as us,"_ he jested, kneeling down to a fallen pirate, and pulling his trousers down. "I mean, look at this," he said, flopping the pirate's cock around in his hand. _"Look at this tiny thing."_

_"You're a sick bastard indeed, Skywald."_

Skywald smiled, leaving the pirate as is, and the two began to walk back up to the centre of the encampment.

There, in the encampment centre, stood Harren the Red, captain of the 'Iron Warden', and the leader of Harren's Reavers, as they had become known, notoriously, in Essos and other places outside of Westeros, where only tales of folklore and myth of their antics had reached the disbelieving Westerosi.

Harren had his giant war maul fastened to his back, its maroon coloured weirwood shaft, with a slightly blue-tinged Valyrian steel headpiece, a sight to behold. The only kind like it in the known world. He inspected the success of their battle, only to have the pirate leader brought before him.

_"Pirate, or sellsail?"_ he asked the man, who was thrown to his feet, boundless.

The man just looked at the massive ironborn captain.

_"Answer the question, leech."_

The man just spat upon Harren's boot, a mix of blood and saliva, forcing the ironborn captain to smile. Harren slowly put his foot up, placing it against the man's face, he kicked him back. The man rolled down a small slope in the hill.

_"You can always tell a man's loyalty by his company of choice,"_ said Harren, walking after him. _"But, we won't hold that against you. You see, we're pirates too, I suppose, by civilized standards."_

_"We're not pirates. I'm Dorys of Lys, Admiral of 'The Swords of the Sea'-"_

_"-Swords of? The Sea?"_ said Harren, interjectionally mocking the man. _"According to the Lyseni, your nothing more than a pirate. A self-titled 'Pirate King', raiding trade ship after trade ship, and disappearing the first hint of battle. I always figured sellswords, or sellsails, or whatever you figure you are, were enticed by the thought of battle? I mean, is that not how they make their names and gold?"_

_"Attacking us at dawn, under cover of darkness, at port, is nothing to behold, brigand."_

_"Brigand?"_ replied Harren, sarcastically. _"See that booty of riches, there?"_ he continued, pointing at the pile of collected treasures. _"No brigand warband is that wealthy."_

The man just looked at him, his teeth grinding at the loss of his fleet.

_"I tell you what. I will release you today, with that there pile of plunder, and a ship - crewed by my own men - to take it with you, back to Myr, and far from Lys and Tyrosh. If... If you can defeat me in single combat. I'll give you choice of weaponry for both yourself and I."_

_"You lie!" _

The reavers began laying out assorted arms on the ground. Dorys, beginning to crawl, climbed up, stumbling, and fell upon the arms, picking for himself a longsword and shield. Putting his own sword under his closed shield arm, he picked up a tiny dirk and tossed it to Harren. _"Ha, ha!"_ laughed Dorys, maniacally.

Harren did nothing but smile, lazily hanging his arms by his side, he circled Dorys, dirk in hand. Dorys raised his shield and sword, and readied his stance, following Harren's movement, who was walking around him.

_"I'll even let you take the first strike,"_ said Harren, boldly.

Dorys lunged froward, jabbing his sword forward, only to miss a fully aware Harren, who sidestepped the strike with ease and relative fearlessness. Foolishly, Dorys struck again the same way, and took several swings, Harren only backing just out of range of the sword's tip, still having not raised the dirk.

Dorys charged once more. This time, Harren brushed the sword strike aside his bracer, and walked forward, grabbing Dorys's throat with his free hand, laughing, and engaging the cheers of his men, turned the dirk sideways, and jabbed it into his opponent's ear, driving it deeper into his head.

Dorys's mouth opened, and his tongue stuck out, eyes fixated ahead, no blinks, just dazed, before Harren just released his throat, and watched him collapse to the sand.

_"Right then, load up the ship, collect the dead, and finish this port to torch. We're sailing back to Lys. The Pirate King of Grey Gallows is of no more threat to them."_

The Iron Warden, Captain Harren's massive 'great longship', was custom and no other would match its size or speed, in the world. Years of perfecting, with engineering enhances from every corner of the world - traveled by the fearsome vessel - have led to not only one of the speediest of seafaring vessels, but also the speediest of its size.

Crewed at full, the ship has a capacity of 750 reavers, with supply holds for that number, for a voyage up to three months in length, but can be crewed at minimum capacity of just 100 men. The ship packs powerful rudders that can turn its direction with ease. The ship also boasts a powerful ramming headpiece, made of an extremely rare and hardened wood, called _Titanwood_, the ram could power through the bowels of any vessel that can currently float.

* * *

**Shortly thereafter, aboard the Iron Warden**

_"Another sound victory, Harren,"_ said Sigmund, thumbs resting in his belt.

_"Would you have expected a different outcome, old friend?"_

_"I miss The Islands,"_ said Sigmund, looking out over the bow of the ship to the open sea. _"How long has it been since we last returned? Four, five years?"_

_"Longer, to my recollection."_

_"We've lost a hundred and seventy-seven men, in the years since we set sail for Essos. That number never escapes me."_

_"Worthy deaths. Deaths in combat and at sea. If we all end up so lucky, we shall dine every night afterwards with the Drowned God."_

_"How many reaves do you think we have left in us, old friend?"_ asked Sigmund, the question causing Harren to stop eating.

Harren wiped his hands off, and looked to his friend. _"Is there something wrong with our course, Sig?"_

_"I don't mean it like that. I meant, how much plunder do we need to satisfy ourselves enough to return home? We've been doing this for over decade, Harren."_

_"Rightly so. It is our birthright. It's our livelihood. Our profession, Sig. It's what we were born to do. This. And we are quite fine at it, as well,"_ he said with a smile, returned by Sigmund.

_"I mean, we are far wealthier than our ancestors could have been in a life time of reaving. We have ships full of plunder that we couldn't spend in a lifetime."_

_"Suffice to say, you know better than I, you old sea crab, that this isn't about the plunder. It's about the reave."_

_"Forget it, Harren. An old man, with a decaying mind,"_ he said, forcing a smile.

_"It troubles you so, old friend. Perhaps we will make a trip to The Islands before long, and, you could step off the ship one last time, and live out your days with a troupe of Lyseni salt wives to bare you many sons before you pass."_

_"As much a dream as that seems to be, my place is here, at sea, my friend. With you. I have fathered plenty of bastards in my travels. I look now for the day to rest these weary bones. But I shall never give up reaving, to do it."_

_"Rightly so. I am blessed by the Drowned God to have you help me lead this rabble,"_ he said, jokingly.

A knock on the cabin door came. _"We are approaching port, Red."_

Harren pushed himself back out of the chair, and wiped his hands together. _"Perhaps we'll receive a triumph upon our return."_

Walking out onto the deck, the men had docked the ship, and readied their exit off it. Harren walked by them, Sigmund on his rear.

_"Red,"_ they all uttered, as he passed by them, an acknowledgement to their captain and leader.

First off the ship were two ironborn, armed with spear and round shields, they stood at the bottom of the plank walk. Harren passed by them, only taking with him a small retinue to the manse of his supposed-financier, Theban Rydahl.

Theban was one of the wealthiest merchant princes in the Free Cities. He was certainly one of the - if not the - wealthiest and most influential merchant prince in Lys, of whom, Dorys of _'The Sea Bastards'_, was a thorn in said thigh. He had a manse in Lys, which dwarfed a Westerosi Lord's hold. His manse, deep in riches, adorned with the rarest of tree orchards and vineyards, fountains and canals, and towers, manned by his immensely vast personal army.

Harren and Sigmund mounted up by horse, accompanied by Skywald, Thorwin, Eberon, and Aleth.

_"Saron, see to the protection of the ship. Encourage the men to spend their fortunes. We will not be here for long."_

_"As you say,"_ replied a grizzled Saron.

_"Let's make haste. We may as well get this over with. Theban will be expecting us."_

The six men, mounted up, and departed for the manse on the other side of Lys.

After riding through the immense city, they arrived at the gatehouse to the manse. Four spearmen were present at the gate, lined across it. Above, in the gatehouse, sided with two towers, were four archers, looking over at the visitors.

A fifth man on the ground came from a side door in the gatehouse, to greet them.

_"Harren the Red,"_ he said, extending hands to the man, the two embracing each other. _"Is it done?"_ he asked, inquiringly.

_"It is. Dead and gone,"_ replied a dismounted Harren, turning to point at a sack, the bottom reddened by blood. _"Dorys of Grey Gallows."_

_"Oh, how I would love to see it, but we have strict orders from the prince. We are to usher you through as soon as you arrive. He cannot wait to hear the news. He's in the grand gardens, now, having some wine,"_ said the commander, snapping his fingers to have the gates opened, whilst a rider came through.

_"This rider will escort you and your men to the gardens."_

_"For you, my friend,"_ said Harren, placing a pouch of gold dragons in the commander's hands.

The man smiled. _"Thank you, greatly."_

Mounting up, Harren led the others onto the property, where they followed the lone rider to the royal gardens. In what seemed to be an inordinately long ride, they arrived, passing over the perfectly constructed bridge - a testament to the unique Lyseni architecture - they passed down a path, lined with spearmen.

_"Harren the Red to see the prince,"_ said the rider, gaining access past a makeshift checkpoint.

Inside the gardens, dozens of shirtless man-slaves, with bounded heads, waited patiently, four with large Bojwa tree leaves, fanning the prince, who laid upon large, stuffed silken pillows, enjoying a golden chalice of red wine, as he watched a half dozen of his children play in the water of one of the fountains.

The leisure platform, held up by two dozen slaves, was held six feet in the air. The prince's adjutant leaned in and whispered to him. The prince darted up out of his resting place, and proceeded off. A slave held a pillow above his head, on which created a step for the prince to come down. Two others had linked arms, holding a pillow just by their chests, between them, which was the second step, and a third slave held a large pillow on his knelt and bent over back, serving as the last step down. The prince moved to greet Harren.

_"Harren the Red, savior of Lys!"_ he shouted.

_"Theban. It is good to see you, friend."_

_"Prince Theban!"_ replied the prince, with a stern look. He quickly broke into a large smile. _"I am joking, my friend. Do you have news for me?"_

_"I do. The deed is done. Dorys is dead."_

_"By all that is bright, that is splendid news! Come, sit with me,"_ he said, leading Harren to two chairs overlooking the vineyard on the side of the walkway.

Harren turned, and gestured in a nod with his head for Aleth to proceed, with the sack in hand.

_"Where is this dog's head? Show it too me, my friend."_

Aleth proceeded forward, opening the sack, putting his hand in, and drawing up the head of the slain pirate, the dirk still embedded in his head.

_"Oh, he is more beautiful now, than he ever was before!"_ jested the prince.

_"Over a month of hunting. Nine ships found. Nine ships burned,"_ said Harren, receiving a gold chalice of red wine, from a slave.

_"This pirate scum,"_ replied Theban, spitting on Dorys' decaying face. _"I curse you, dog."_

_"The Pirate King of-" _

_"-Air!"_ replied Theban. _"Grey Gallows, bah,"_ he continued, spitting upon the ground. _"He is no more. The notorious pirate of the Stepstones, no more,"_ said Theban, snapping his fingers, to signal over another man, dressed in luxurious wear, common of Lyseni.

Harren looked over, but quickly lost interest.

_"This,"_ said Theban. _"This is the future. My cousin, Salladhor Saan. He is a new trader. A former sellsail, he knew Dorys for many years, before becoming a trader, himself."_

_"It is true,"_ replied Salladhor. _"I knew the man. As dervish was he was, he was quick-witted and bold."_

_"Up until the minute I shoved that dirk in his skull,"_ replied Harren, taking a chug of the wine, rather than an eloquent sip.

_"The most famous of pirates, bested by Lyseni gold!"_ boasted Theban. _"Tyrosh will be pleased with this news, as well. Oh woe unto the Myrish, for their companion on the Stepstones is vanquished!"_

Salladhor Saan did not smile, as he received a chalice full of wine, as well. It was as if he still had a soft spot for his old friend, now no more than a severed head.

_"Would three hundred thousand novals suffice? It was the going rate, doubled as of last month, for the collapse of this pirate network."_

Salladhor spit up, choking slightly on the wine, he wiped his mouth quickly, for none to see.

_"Keep your money, Theban,"_ replied Harren.

_"I assure you, three hundred thousand novals will buy you an immense palace, with an army of servants to tend to your every comfort for the rest of your life, my friend. They are of the same size and value as your gold dragons, in Westeros."_

_"On The Iron Islands, we take by force, we do not do for hire. I forgot to mention that to you, when we spoke last."_

_"Right, forgot to mention,"_ replied Theban, with a smile. _"Well, I owe payment in some fashion to you, Harren."_

_"I took my payment from the pirate cove. Gold and jewels. If you see that as fitting to release, then that will be payment enough."_

Theban clinched his jaw, his tight skin showing the bones of his face, as he downed the rest of the wine, breath held awhile, then released. _"Done."_

_"Theban,"_ interjected Salladhor. _"The plunder recovered is vastly more than promised as reward for the quelling of the network-"_

_"Silence, Salla. It is done!"_

_"I suppose we are done here then,"_ said Harren, rising from his seat.

_"You did Lys a justice, Harren. One which could not be easily repaid. For that, you are always welcome here, a Warrior-Lord of Lys!"_

_"An honour I intend to take up, one day,"_ replied Harren, looking to the Lyseni whores who accompanied Theban.

_"You need find yourself a wife, Harren. You are getting old. It is time to settle down,"_ joked Theban.

_"My wife is the sea, Theban."_

_"Understood,"_ replied Theban, emptying his chalice. _"Oh. There is a messenger for you... From your homeland. He awaits you at one of the guest villas. Rodahr will show you the way."_

Spinning the chalice in his hand, cleared his throat. _"I know we did not always see eye to eye, Harren. That you once pirated this fine city as well, pirated... Me. However, you have redeemed yourself, and in our new found friendship, we have established the basis for a great alliance between us. I have never visited The Iron Islands, but perhaps, one day I may."_

Harren began to walk to his mount, tossing the empty chalice to a slave. _"It is home for me, but lack of luxury for you, good friend."_

Mounting up, Harren and his men followed the rider, Rodahr. Their ride to the other side of Theban's expansive property was seemingly long, before they passed through the gatehouse to one of the guest villas. There, the lot of them dismounted and they proceeded up the steps to the entrance of the villa. The slaves opened the doors, and they walked through, Rodahr at their lead. Inside, they were led to the feasting hall, and inside, four of their ironborn brothers were feasting, one of which got up, rubbing his hands together, and proceeded to greet them.

_"Captain Harren, I have urgent news from Rodrik Greyjoy. Perhaps we could speak in private?"_

_"I keep nothing of the sort from my men. That said, this Lyseni can leave, but my brothers will stay,"_ replied Harren, waving away the Lyseni escort, who exited the hall, closing the doors behind him. Looking at the food before them, a meal for a dozen, prepared for four. _"Have at it, boys."_

All the men seated themselves and engorged on the abundance of food.

_"So what of this news?"_

_"You have been summoned to Pyke. Any reavers and ships under your command are to return post-haste."_

_"Do I look like a common alley dog to you? I do not answer to such demands,"_ he said, laughing. All his men bursted into laughter, as they ate.

_"It is of the utmost in urgency. K... Lord Balon wishes it so,"_ said the messenger, looking around at the faces of the other men, hoping none noticed his mistake.

_"What of this urgency? Has Nagga's mate risen from the depths?"_

_"I have been ordered strictly to inform you to return, Captain. You will be fully briefed of the recall, once received at Pyke."_

Harren took a deep breath, and looked over to Sigmund. Knowing his friend wished to return to The Iron Islands after a long time, and to the rest of his men, whom he knew wanted to return as well, sooner rather than later, as they had not made the journey back for the better half of a decade.

_"Right then, we shall return. Adorned in the plunder of our reaves!"_ bellowed Harren, earning the roars of his men.

_"Make leave when you wish, brother. We will return in our own time,"_ said Harren, as he sat down to eat with them.


	2. II - Returning Home

**Chapter II - Returning Home**

**War Council Chambers,**

**Pyke Castle, The Iron Islands**

_"If we are to strike at Seagard, then we must first deal with the Lannister fleet, father."_

_"Nonsense, Rodrik. We needn't trouble ourselves with that pathetic excuse for a naval force. The Lions have the gold to buy their ships, yet none brave enough to crew them - fishermen and deckhands. Gold can buy a lot of things, but natural skill and bravery are without price."_

Rodrik stood up straight, taking his gaze off the map laid out before him. _"And what do you propose we do then?"_ he said, sternly.

_"Watch your tone with me, boy. I may have made you commander of my armies, but you will show me the respect, not just as your father, but as your liege, in turn,"_ snapped an angry Balon Greyjoy.

_"Apologies, Your Grace,"_ said Rodrik, in a subtly sarcastic tone. _"But it is essential we remove a naval threat - irrelevant of its quality - as it is still a threat, by day's end."_

_"So be it,"_ replied Balon, waving his hand in seeming content, as he paced about the room. _"I suppose Victarian could use the action to embolden his men, and solidify the greatness of our naval power."_

_"Right then, father. We must move to make plans to hit on multiple fronts. Our best course of action, given our current scenario, would be to strike fast and hard on multiple fronts."_

_"Surely securing a ground base at Seagard and the burning of the golden fleet will suffice as first strikes, my son. I see no need to overextend our forces more than is necessary, given our superiority in all natural combat, land and sea,"_ replied Balon, hands clasped behind his back, as he stared deeply upon the Greyjoy kraken, atop the Seastone Chair. _"We only need strike to send a swift message to King's Landing that we intend to protect our holdings. The lords elsewhere will rebel, once seen that the Stag will do nothing."_

_"What if they don't rebel?"_ began Rodrik, stopping, as commotion was heard outside the room, in the adjacent hall. The words spoken were muffled, and so they could not be made out.

The doors opened and in came a guard. _"Captain Harren to speak with you, Your Grace."_

Balon turned, as if for a moment an excitement blazed within his cold being. _"Granted,"_ he uttered, waving off the guard.

Rodrik turned to the door, to behold the captain.

Harren walked through the open doors, into the council chamber. _"My Lord - or I suppose Your Grace?"_

_"Your Grace is right, Harren,"_ replied Rodrik, with a curt smile.

_"By the God below, its the kraken of stone and sea. The Crown Prince, I would assume?"_

_"Ha ha,"_ laughed Rodrik, as he moved around the table and approached his friend, his arms raised upward, as if to receive him.

_"Fear the kraken, or so they say,"_ japed Harren, receiving his friend and pull him in close, with a giant squeeze of a hug.

Rodrik released and grabbed Harren by the arms. _"Solid as stone, massive as a giant. You look good, old friend!"_

_"Look good and feel better,"_ replied Harren, flexing. _"While you and your dandy brother danced around these rocks, attempting to skip stones in the rough waves, as if simple and half-witted, I was reaving day and night. There is seldom a coastal city in Essos that has not felt the wrath of the ironborn."_

_"Our men, brother. Ironborn true and through,"_ replied Rodrik, gleefully.

Harren nodded, and turned to Balon Greyjoy, who seated himself in the Seastone Chair, legs crossed over one another, the man looking on, his face withered and unchanged.

_"It is good to see you again, Your Grace. For last we met, we did not see eye to eye,"_ said Harren, approaching the Seastone Chair.

_"Captain Harren,"_ said Balon, nodding in polite acknowledgement of his presence. _"Long have we waited for these days to be upon us. How many generations have suffered the soft ways of the Greenland. The kings of old would have cast us all out to sea, if they had seen where we ended up."_

_"I agree,"_ said Harren, walking to the window, placing his hand up on the wall, and looking out. _"I refuse to live under the laws of a fat drunkard of a king. Atleast, the last time we were at port in King's Landing, he was a fat drunkard. I imagine gluttony and indulgence have only plumped up the pig more. Pathetic waste of flesh. Him and the lot he companies with."_

_"All the more reason for us to claim what is rightfully ours,"_ replied Balon. _"The usurper stag does not have the same grasp over Westeros as the dragons did. This makes his position weak and generally unsupported. It would be easy pickings to separate and take what was once our peoples',"_ he said, raising from the chair and approaching a side table, where wine awaited him.

_"Dorne will certainly follow suit - their hatred of the Lannisters already apparent. Following Dorne, the snubbed and dried out flowers of the south, in Highgarden. They have no true liking of the Lannisters or Baratheons,"_ he continued, pouring himself a drink. _"One by one, Robert's 'loyal' people will turn on him. All the while, we will take and take and take, until we've restored what was one held by your namesake, Harren._

_"And to what strength do the Islands possess? It has been quite long since I have been home,"_ said Harren, leaning against the wall, near the window.

_"The numbers are still coming in. Great Wyk has uttered 15,000. Another 12,000 from Harlaw. 5,000 from Pyke itself. And we estimate another 10,000, at least, gathered from the other isles,"_ replied Rodrik, skimming the map of the Islands, with his finger.

_"Substantial, indeed. Are these men ready to die to uphold independence and protect the way of old, I ask?"_

_"I hope so, for the sake of what we are risking, now. They will outnumber us at least five to one, initially. Perhaps more, with all the levies raised. Minus those who do not raise in response to Robert's call."_

_"All will raise, that is for certain. They would not risk the drunkard king's wrath, I assure you,"_ replied Harren, taking another drink, his assurance solidly placed.

_"We need to expand the initial assault. We need to show them we will not be pushed over. Who better to lead our men into battle than yourself?"_

Harren smiled. _"You brought me halfway around the world to permit me to reave?"_

_"Permit you to reave Westeros, my friend,"_ he replied.

Balon was listening, patiently. _"It's no rumour, but a fact that your reavers are by far the most experienced, Harren. The stories come in from the traders of your adventures abroad. Most of the greenland doesn't believe the tales of Harren the Red's reavers…"_

_"It is true, my friend,"_ confirmed Rodrik. _"The tales have intensified over the years. The travellers call you the spawn of the Drowned God and some mighty sea dragon."_

_"They call me the son of the sea wind,"_ uttered Balon, fidgeting his hands together. _"But I think it is you, captain, for I have not reaved in years."_

The council room door opened, and in walked Victarion Greyjoy, commander of the Iron Fleet, and Euron Greyjoy, the middle brother of Balon and Victarion, whom was known widely as 'Crow's Eye', for the patch he wore over his eye. Victarion removed his gloves, placing them in his belt strap, he immediately walked over to the table of strong wine, and poured himself a large cupful, uttering not a word, or even acknowledging the other in the room. Euron walked straight ahead, seating himself at the feasting table, alone. He began to pick away at the food prepared.

Balon kept silent, ignoring his brothers' presence, perhaps out sheer spite of being ignored.

_"Uncles,"_ acknowledged Rodrik.

_"Nephew,"_ replied Victarion, coldly.

_"Well, aren't we blessed on this fine afternoon. Harren the Red. In the flesh. It has been some time since you graced your people with a presence?"_ mocked Euron, snapping a crab's leg, and sucking the meat out of it.

_"Euron Crow's Eye. I was busy spreading the fear of the Drowned God to turtle worshippers and sword dancers,"_ replied Harren, picking up a cooked salmon, eating the whole of the head first, the juice gushing out of his mouth. _"While you used your mighty fleet to catch loads of fish, squandering away the life given to you from the depths, I was raping cities and burning women… Or, was it the other way around?" _

_"Smart mouthed as always,"_ replied Euron. _"It can get you into trouble in these parts, where japes can be understood in your own language."_

Standing up, and straightening his posture, pulling his shoulders back, Harren gave Euron a cold stare. _"I could grab you by the throat, pull out your tongue, and push your eyes into the back of your head, rip your arms off and beat your bloodied body senseless, as the last vestiges of your life slowly slip away from you. And I would surely take great pleasure in it, as well as any disdain it may bring, from below."_

Standing up, Euron placed his clenched fists on the table, gazing over at Harren. _"You think yourself a great hero, don't you?"_

_"You pull the tongues out of the mouths of thralls and you think that makes you a big man? I could throw you out that window and I promise that not a single one here; your brothers or your nephew would do a single thing about it, you pathetic whelp,"_ replied Harren, the tendons in his huge arms, tightening, and showing the constraint of his thick skin on his veins, as they wrap around his immense muscular frame.

_"A fickle hero's threat,"_ snapped back Euron.

_"Enough!"_ bellowed Balon. _"The fight is out there! Beyond the sea!"_

Euron, straight-faced and emotionless, suddenly broke a smirk, backing out of his aggressive stance, he sat back down, and grabbed another crab leg. The man was brave beyond belief - of which his bravery could rival that of Harren's - yet the man was no physical match for the massive war captain. It only fuelled Euron's disdain for the man, that perhaps there were some greater than he.

_"I'll lead the initial reave,"_ said Harren, to Balon, spitting on the plate that Euron prepared for himself. Euron just dipped the open crab leg in the spit, and sucked the meat out, the man's brutish disregard for disgust, apparent.

_"How many men did you return with?"_ asked Balon, inquiringly.

_"Near 400 reavers,"_ replied Harren.

_"I command over a thousand,"_ said Euron, interjecting.

_"I command reavers, not tongueless man-whores,"_ snapped Harren, unamused, as he walks over to the wine table, with a half-full flask, emptying the contents on the floor, as he goes to fill himself a flask-full of mead.

_"They've told you of my plan to take out the Lion's fleet?"_ said Euron, boastfully, as he put down an empty crab leg shell, and brushed his hands together, leaning back in the chair. _"That was me. Genius, is it not?"_

Harren scoffed. _"You could have 100,000 men, for you wouldn't be the commander to lead them, they'd only be able to crew your pathetic excuse for a ship - the 'Silence', is it?"_

_"My brother will lead the fleet, but I masterminded the strike,"_ responded Euron, ignoring the slight. _"My dear nephew, here, will lead the assault on Seagard."_

_"I will lead the first reave,"_ said Harren, boldly, and unexpectedly.

_"What plunder is claimed would be yours to keep, Harren,"_ replied Balon, staunchly appeased by the reputable war captain's initiative.

_"No,"_ he replied, sharply. _"What does plunder matter, now? This is far more than common reaves for loot. I have more plunder than any greenlord in Westeros could dream of. Even the comfortably wealthy,"_ he finished, with a smirk.

_"This is the reestablishment of something taken from our people, centuries ago,"_ he continued, walking to the map. Rodrik stepped aside, as Harren gazed upon it. _"We will send a message to the unlucky candidate. We will ensure our wrath - once feared and unquestioned - will be remembered in tales of horror to come. We will strike swift and hard, and burn their coastal cities to the ground"_ he said, his finger running up and down the western coast of Westeros.

_"Here,"_ he said, pointing inland. _"The usurper's strongest ally. The north,"_ he said, unclipping Rodrik's sheathed dagger, by the hilt, and drawing it from his belt. He flipped it in his hands, masterfully, as he fixated his eyes to a target location, unrevealed to the others.

_"The might of the north involves the strongest point in the west. We will slaughter the men, rape the women - slowly slitting their throats, and leave nothing but charred and orphaned children,"_ continued Harren, breathing in deeply, his chest raising out, its impeccable size. _"There will be a deep cry in the north, and it will echo across Westeros for years to come. The darkest tides will strike in sweet time, and none will escape the iron judgment that follows. We will burn Barrowton to the ground!"_ he yelled, in his deep and commanding tone of voice, jabbing the dagger into the town, on the map.


	3. III - The Many Lords of Lordsport

**Chapter III - The Many Lords of Lordsport**

_"You son of a bitch, Thorwin!"_ yelled a pain-stricken Dagon, his fist clenched, reddened and gushing blood, as he looked around for his ring finger, severed on the middle knuckle, as he found the tip of his middle finger - severed on the top knuckle - the men around them laughing hysterically.

_"'Ol Thorwin has only ever lost the finger dance two times!"_ bellowed the staggering, slightly intoxicated warrior, as he held up his left hand, his middle finger clipped off on the mid-knuckle, and his pinky completely severed off.

Dagon was one of Harren's many reavers. Like Thorwin, Dagon had a lust for the dangerous game of the 'finger dance', which involves two men throwing hand axes at each other, attempting to catch the other's throw. The game results in defeat for the one who fails to catch the axe properly, and often, they in turn lose fingers.

_"Sew it up, fool!"_ blurted Dagon, as he backhanded a thrall, with his intact hand. The thrall - put to the task of first aid - waved over the second thrall, who brought a jug of wine, a natural disinfectant. The thrall with the jug poured the wine on the wound.

_"Arrggghhh!"_ bellowed Dagon, as he clinched his free fist and punched the thrall in the mouth, sending the thin, sickly-looking man to the ground. The first thrall had needle and thread ready, as three ironborn held Dagon down. Held down firmly, the thrall covered the alcohol-drenched stub (formerly full finger) with a wool bandage, as the second thrall (who was punched) got back up to his feet.

_"Hahaha!"_ laughed Thorwin, as he left the scene of his victory to celebrate with some of the spectating men. "Pour me a big ol' tankard, ya bastard," he yelled to a thin Rylan Pyke, a tavern boy, who happened to be a bastard. The boy began pouring him some mead.

_"By the god below that was a good dance!"_ said Eberon the One-Eyed, seating himself at an outdoor table, outside the tavern, _'The Prancing Crab'_, as he too had a large tankard of mead.

_"Piss n shit. That's all we done since we slew that admiral pirate. Was yearning fur another finger dance,"_ said Thorwin, counting his three fingers on his left hand. "Hadn't lost in ten-" his rant trailed off, as he had a gas bubble rising from his gut. Burping loudly, he finished, _"-bouts!"_

_"Your lucky, ya old drunken gimp!"_ shouted Skywald, from the table next to them.

_"Listen here ya limey little shite. I'll take whatever the Drowned God throws at, by removing ya head from ya shoulders, 'n I would gladly take 'n punishment it brings!"_

"Ya'd have to catch me first, old man. Not an easy task to do for such a drunk gimp as yourself," said Skywald, garnering the laughs of his fellow scouts, Aleth and Daron, who sat with him.

Thorwin stood up, drawing a hand axe from his belt, and pointing it aggressively toward Skywald. _"I'll cut ya fuckin' nuts off wit dis, by."_

_"Don't be crazy, old man. I still need my nuts. They actually have some juice left in them, whereas yours are dried up old nutshells!"_ returned Skywald, as he slowly drew a throwing dagger from his vest. "You're drunk. Sit down," he continued, passively waving the threat off.

_"Skywald, you do this to him every time,"_ interjected Eberon, then taking a large gulp of thick mead.

Thorwin seemed to have won the dance just in time, as now he could barely stand unattended. He wobbled over, held by Eberon, so as to not fall forward on his own hand axe. Another of the ironborn took the hand axe from Thorwin, and he seemed not even to have noticed, wobbling forward, onto the table, and then back, as he fell off his seat. All the men broke into laughter.

_"Oh woe unto the grassy lords, the Greenbane strikes again!"_ japed Skywald, singing with a clear sense of mockery, garnering even more laughs from the men.

_"Oh Skywald. You're a pretty man. Ya gotsa pretty face,"_ said Brave Beron, all the men laughing, as he fell out of his chair, passing out.

_"Bring on the wenches!"_ yelled Skywald, as the men hooted and hollered, pounding their tankards - full or empty - on the tables.

That being said, the tavern owner, a man by the name of Sorens, ushered out of the tavern a dozen whores, all of whom were prepared for the arrival of the famous reavers. The whores scattered, each being grabbed by the hands or hips, and put atop the laps of the men. One of the men just grabbed a whore, his cock out of his trousers, spit a slobbery mucus in his hand, rubbed his cock, as he lifted her underskirt, and bent her over a side table.

The men cheered and hooted, as they began to make out with the women, some going straight for the prize of _'lower'_ satisfaction.

Skywald pulled out a flute, licking his lips, he began to play a speedy tune for his brothers.

Near them, but across the walkway, six other ironborn just watched them, silent as can be, enjoying their drinks, as they do everyday at the same tavern - this time - overcome with a new rare new bunch of sea warriors.

One of the ironborn observers whispered a jest to two of the others, across from him, and Skywald had caught eye of it, stopping his flute play, he fixed his eyes to the man, who stared back at him.

Licking his lips, and looking to the man, Skywald would be the one of the bunch of pick a fight. _"Did you have something you wanted to share, brother?" _

The man scoffed. _"I'm not your brother, skinny man."_

The others laughed, but Skywald could only wince.

_"Would you like me to play you a tune, brother?"_ he asked.

_"A tune? On that tiny woman's instrument?"_ said the ironborn, igniting the laughs of his comrades. _"Tell me, how does one possess such a wimpy instrument, in these parts? Let me guess, you got it from abroad. Where, I ask? Volantis? Perhaps some other city of shiny-haired dandies?"_

_"Well, actually, I picked it up from some travelling mummers, in Myr, a couple years back. They taught me to use it too,"_ he said, heartily. _"Want to see?"_ he said, moving closer to them, licking his lips.

He began playing the flute at a slow, drab pace. He only stopped to speak. _"Oh there once was a man at 'The Prancing Crab', he liked to fish and smell like piss"_, he said, licking his lips - his eyes shut lightly, pausing for several moments to play the same melody on the flute, as the target man clenched his teeth, and squeezed the handle of his mug, his demeanour growing ever cross. _"And that fisherman, not only a pisserman, liked a hairy gunt over a fresh, smooth cunt!" _

With that, the hot-tempered man jumped up, dagger drawn, he jabbed forth at Skywald, who evaded with a quick side step, then returning a strike, Skywald jabbed his flute into the man's right eye, causing him to shut his other, by sheer natural reaction, as he let out a screeching yelp, dropping the dagger to cover his eye, as to protect the damage from further damage.

Before the others could react, Skywald immediately moved to the man who sat opposite the one he had words with, and he kicked him in the chest, forcing the man back, falling off the bench.

Two other ironborn from the man's group drew hatchets, only to be drawn on by two throwing knives, by Skywald, as well as the drawn weapons of Skywald's men.

_"Just drinks, is it not?"_ yelled a man, dressed in full dark brown regalia, a kraken of House Greyjoy emblazoned upon his smooth, plate chest piece. The man was flanked by a half dozen others, in similar uniform, armed with spears and round shields.

Both the attacked man's men and Skywald's men both lessened their aggressive stances, once revealed to them, who this man was, his appearance relatively familiar in those parts.

_"Murky Maron Greyjoy!"_ blurted Skywald, playfully.

_"Skywald of the bow!"_ returned a similarly playful Maron.

_"I have not seen you since you were still popping white juice from the reds of your face, my once-ugly and skill-less with a weapon friend,"_ jested Skywald.

_"I have definitely honed my skills with weapons of a numerable sort, old friend. Rest assured. Who would I be but a son of Balon, without the mastery of assorted weaponry!"_

The men opposite Harren's reavers decided to leave the tavern area. They got up and pulled their slightly sobbing friend away - the man likely losing his eye from the assault.

_"This isn't over you little shit!"_ the man uttered.

_"My friend, Eberon the One-Eyed, here, would gladly recommend some eye patches for that there eye, good friend!"_ said Skywald, further flaming the fires of the man's disdain towards him.

Eberon did nothing more than smirk, as he bottomed-up his tankard, chugging away the contents.

_"Skywald, my friend. We need talk. My brother sent me to find you and the boys, and I knew right where to look,"_ said Maron, as he was handed a large tankard of mead.

_"Your brother? So they've briefed Harren?"_

_"They have. Harren gave the names of his lieutenants. You, among them, will be required to attend the planning phase of the attacks."_

_"Attacks?"_ replied a puzzled Skywald.

_"Better spoken in private, my friend. A brief respite will ensue for the men, now returned. In a week's time, we will convene to discuss the upcoming events,"_ said Maron, taking a sip of his drink. _"In the meantime,"_ he said, wiping his mouth, "the men, lieutenants included," he continued, winking at Skywald, _"will have time to enjoy themselves at home." _

_"Well, none better to entertain themselves then I!"_ said a boastful Skywald.

_"It will all be explained in good time, brother,"_ said Maron, seating himself with the others of Harren's reavers.

_"So be it,"_ replied Skywald, turning to the men, and raising his voice. _"But as for tonight! We are the many lords of Lordsport! Bring on more drinks, wench!"_ he yelled to a tavern wench, nearby.

**Several nights later… **

Harren stared into the chaos of the fireplace, naked, with only a gigantic tankard, uncommon in size in The Islands, a possession claimed from his travels. The fire was thickly lit, illuminating the entirety of the room. It was the most luxurious room available at _'The Prancing Crab'_, adorned in the hanging skins of dead beasts. Mostly native to Westeros, with the exception of a lion's skin on a side wall, acquired from some distant hunter or traveller.

The room was well built, the intertwining beams that kept the roof intact, stretched into every direction on the roof, in a sort of puzzling mosaic. A giant snow bear pelt covered much of the living room, in front of the fire, the spread out space swallowing the size of the large chair in which he sat, listening to the crackle and pop of the fireplace, a never-ending ambience.

Behind him, up a short couple of steps, a massive bed, swathed in silk sheets and furs had two extraordinarily beautiful maidens warming it, where they slept.

Harren's immensely brawny physique was impeccably shone, with a thin layer of sweat that glistened upon his body, complemented from the spectacular aura of the large fireplace. Comfortable, and with little worries, he sat there, contemplating his situation, and the next steps his reavers would undertake, as he was spinning his tankard by the base, in one hand.

There was a sudden knock upon the door.

Harren turned his head, so as to listen for a second. _"Enter,"_ he said, simply, returning his gaze to the fire.

The door opened, and in walked Sigmund. He shut the door behind him, moving to Harren, he looked upon the bed, noticing the two women, he smiled.

_"There he is,"_ said Harren, taking another sip of stout.

_"Always two, eh my boy?"_

_"It's the only way,"_ replied a relatively relaxed Harren.

_"How much were they?"_

_"No idea. They needn't require a pay."_

_"You blessed bastard,"_ said Sigmund, seating himself in the vacant chair adjacent Harren's.

Harren took the giant jug of dark stout and poured his tankard full, also pouring one full for Sigmund, the tankard on the foot table before them, but in between, as if Harren had expected company. He pushed the tankard to Sigmund.

_"Drink up, Sigmund,"_ uttered the monstrously brawny Harren.

Sigmund picked up the tankard, and rest it on his lap, still looking at the women in Harren's bed. _"They didn't cost you a dime?"_ he asked, rhetorically, and still amazed by it.

_"Neither did this stout. The room, free of charge. The feast,"_ he said, pointing to the dining table, by the windows, _"completely without expense,"_ he finished, without a hint of bravado.

_"All our plunder, and nowhere to spend it. Even the ships armoury stocks. Replaced or repaired, with no expense. I forced the smithy to take the payment,"_ he said.

_"Your reputation breeds awe and generosity,"_ joked Sigmund.

_"So it seems,"_ said Harren, smiling.

_"Harren the Red, at my tavern,"_ continued Sigmund, impersonating the tavern keep. _"There is probably not a tavern on The Isles that would charge you a night." _

Harren shrugged, his demeanour, indifferent, as if he was so used to such hospitality, that it didn't impress him anymore.

_"Stay here, Sig,"_ he said, plainly, and without explaining.

Sigmund looked puzzled. _"What do you mean?"_

_"Stay on the Islands, when we head out to reave the coasts."_

_"Stay on the Isles?"_ said Sigmund, anger flaring within him. "Are you out of your fucking mind, boy?"

_"I know this is home, Sig. We've sailed with each other for decades. You supported me in my youth, when others didn't believe me capable of captaining a ship."_

_"That's solely because your a goddamn good reaver and an even better leader,"_ replied Sigmund, putting his tankard on the side table, and leaning in.

_"You've sailed and reaved more than most this island ever could, my friend. Maybe its time to retire to a manse of your own."_

_"Nonsense, boy. I live and die by the sea. The same as you. My end will come at the sword of some knight or brute, or carried below the depths by the Storm god. That's how my tale ends, and I'll be damned if I waste away my days looking out to the sea, when I already know the way I'm headed."_

Harren nodded. _"Well enough said."_

_"Now, what I came for was to speak of these raids. What would be our course of action?"_

_"Town to town,"_ replied Harren. _"One after the other. No plunder, no thralls, no salt wives. Nothing but torches and blades."_

_"Torches and blades, eh,"_ replied Sigmund, leaning back, at east, in his chair.

_"We will move quicker, without the excess weight on the ships, and with only what supplies we require day to day."_

_"Agreed." _

_"Feastfires, Seat of House Prester,"_ continued Harren. _"Then perhaps a skirmish with Kayce, if time permits. The Crag, Banefort, and then upwards to the north."_

_"The north?"_ asked Sigmund.

_"The heartland of Robert's outward support. His closest ally, by friendship. The wolves of the north will staunchly defend the stags. With the lions bled out, we will need to swiftly strike the north to deal the blows necessary to their strength, for they will formulate defences in no time, and move their hosts to the coasts,"_ replied Harren, as if he had fully thought out and calculated the events before them.

_"We seldom skip plunder, in its many forms, and as such, we will strike harder and swifter than ever before, spending no longer than hours at each town. We will be upon the next before the flight of the ravens, and so on and so forth,"_ he continued.

_"A wise tactic, to ignore the takes."_

_"Focus on the spread of terror and mayhem is ultimately the goal, and I'm sure that will all be explained in the morning,"_ he said, referring to the war council that will convene in the morning.

_"Rightly so,"_ said Sigmund. _"I near forgot about that. Well, I should be off then, in that case,"_ he finished, as one of the girl's had gotten up and come over to Harren, behind him, rubbing her hand down his impeccably chiselled chest. Sigmund smiled.

_"You better be there, Sig. Don't let me alone with these crab-legged scoundrels,"_ he said jokingly, as the girl began to kiss up and down his neck.

Getting up, to see his friend off, the girl wrapped herself in Harren's arms, the man, freely allowing her to do as much. _"On the morrow, brother,"_ he said, to a departing Sigmund.

_"On the morrow,"_ replied Sigmund, shutting the door behind him, as Harren proceeded over to the bed, the girl turning, wrapping her arms around his neck, and jumping up, to wrap her legs around his body, as he knelt on the bed, laying her down, climbing over her with his massive body, he began to kiss her.


End file.
